Thornhold

by Elaine Cunningham

  The Street of Silks was lively with mid-morning commerce by the time Bronwyn arrived at her shop. But to her surprise, the door to the Curious Past was closed, and a sign proclaimed that the shop would open after highsun.

  Bronwyn frowned as she fumbled in her pocket for her extra key. This was unlike Alice. The gnome was the most faithful shopkeeper in all of Waterdeep, which was saying a great deal. What could have happened to inspire her to close the shop during the busy morning hours?

  Memory edged into Bronwyn’s mind, bringing with it questions she had not had time to consider, and a suspicion that made her heart hang like lead in her chest. The Harpers had known where to find her the night she’d met with Malchior. Either they had followed her footsteps during the entire tumultuous day—which was unlikely—or they had been informed of her intended meeting place. Malchior and his henchmen had received word of the meeting place shortly before the appointed time. Only one other person knew her plans.

  Alice.

  Bronwyn thrust the key back into her pocket and turned her steps south, toward the tall, smooth black tower where all Harper business seemed to converge. As she worked her way through the crowded street, Bronwyn reminded herself that she was accustomed to treachery and betrayal, that she faced it every day and made deft provisions to survive it. It was nothing new, and usually it was nothing personal.

  Why, then, did her eyes burn so painfully with unshed tears?

  * * * * *

  Ebenezer stared glumly at his cage. The wooden slats were hard and thick enough to keep a whole den of beavers busy until sundown. Without knife or axe, he had little hope of getting free.

  Yet that was precisely what he had to do. Humans and half-orcs in the tunnels, catching dwarves and sticking them in cages. That was trouble. Spellcasting priests were even worse, and who knew how many more of them were roaming around? He had to get free and bring warning to his clan.

  The dwarf rose up on his knees and took another look around. The men had returned a while back and had crated up the osquips’ trove. Zhents, they were, and intent on plunder. The cave was full of stout boxes, locked and wrapped with chains. There was nothing lying about handy that he could use as tool or weapon, even if he could find a way to reach it. Nothing at all but a few paces of stone ledge and a long drop to the river.

  Inspiration struck. Ebenezer scuttled to the far side of his cage, crouched, and launched himself at the opposite wall. The cage tilted, then crashed onto its side. He shook his head to clear it, then repeated the maneuver. He moved the cage over to the ledge, one painful crash at a time, and prayed to every dwarven god who’d ever wielded a hammer that he could finish the job before the racket brought back the dwarf-stealing Zhents.

  Ebenezer paused at the very brink of the ledge. One more time, and he’d crash to the stone path below. The cage simply could not survive the impact, and he would be free.

  “This is gonna hurt some,” he admitted, then hurled himself against the cage one last time.

  * * * * *

  To Algorind’s dismay, the child did not take kindly to her rescue. She fought him until they reached Rassalanter Hamlet, where he gratefully turned her over to the nurse Sir Gareth had employed. After downing a a cup of strong tea, the child fell asleep, and stayed asleep in the privacy of a covered carriage, until they reached Waterdeep.

  With great relief he entered the grounds of Tyr’s temple, and sent word ahead to Sir Gareth as he had been instructed to do. In moments, the old knight met him at the gate, on horseback and ready to travel. To Algorind’s surprise, Sir Gareth led him not into the complex, but down the street toward the sea.

  “This matter required great secrecy,” Gareth reminded him. “If the child is to find safe, appropriate fosterage, few can know of her arrival in Waterdeep.”

  “But surely she would be safe in the Halls of Justice,” Algorind ventured.

  The knight looked at him kindly. “Many visitors come to the Halls of Justice, seeking aid or information. We cannot risk that the child’s presence be discovered. Some might come to us with questions. Why place the brothers in a position where they must either betray us or lie? What they do not know, they can deny in good faith.”

  “I’m sure that is wise,” Algorind agreed, though for some reason he still felt somewhat troubled.

  “It is necessary,” Sir Gareth said firmly. “You may leave the child in my hands now, your duty complete.”

  Algorind hesitated. “What would you have me do now? Return to Summit Hall with word that the child is safely in your hands?”

  “No, better that you ride first to Thornhold with a message to Hronulf. He should have word of his granddaughter.”

  The knight reached out and placed a hand on the young paladin’s shoulder. His face was grave. “I have a new charge for you. Stay with Hronulf for as long as needs be. I fear that perilous times are coming, and I would feel more content for my old friend’s safety if I knew that a young knight of your skill and valor guarded his back.”

  “I will happily do as you ask, but I am not yet a knight,” Algorind felt compelled to add.

  Sir Gareth smiled, but his eyes had the faraway expression of a man who regarded distant glories. “Do this, and I swear to you that you will die as a paladin should, fighting alongside fellow knights.”

  * * * * *

  As he entered Khelben’s study, Danilo recoiled in suprise. There was a slight swelling to one side of the archmage’s jaw, where Dan had struck. His lingering ire vanished, replaced by guilt and puzzlement. Khelben could easily heal himself—why would he choose not to?

  “Our last discussion seems to have made more of an impression upon you than I intended,” Danilo ventured.

  The sharp, sidelong look Khelben sent him showed a hint of self-deprecating humor that most men would think entirely foreign to the archmage’s character.

  “Apology accepted,” Khelben said brusquely. “Now, to the matter at hand.”

  He nodded toward the other occupant of the chamber, a gnome woman who sat clenching the arms of a too large chair, her feet stuck straight up before her like a child’s.

  “Alice,” Danilo said warmly. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Save the pleasantries,” the archmage cut in, “and listen well. A situation has arisen that requires me to divulge information that until now was best left unspoken.”

  Khelben strode over to his writing desk, absently picked up a quill, and crumbled it in his hand. “Alice tells me that Malchior has given Bronwyn information on her past. She is even now talking to Tyr’s followers. This creates a grave situation and puts her in considerable danger.”

  He dropped the ruined pen into a wastebasket. A small, claw-tipped orange hand reached up and caught it from the air. The smacking, chewing sounds that followed spoke of the discrete disposal that awaited any discarded written drafts that might otherwise reveal the archmage’s business.

  “It is certain that members of the Zhentarim know of Bronwyn’s identity. Soon the paladins of Tyr will know this, as well. They may tell her of the power that her heritage brings. Paladins and Zhents will wish to exploit it, and her.”

  Danilo nodded slowly. He hadn’t resolved his anger at Khelben’s machinations, or his own sense of confusion over his part in uncovering Bronwyn’s identity, but at least he was beginning to see Khelben’s reasoning. He didn’t like it any better, but understanding helped. A little.

  “And what is this power?” he inquired.

  The archmage grimaced. “I do not know the whole of it,” he admitted, “but this much I can tell you: the Knights of Samular have in their possession three rings, artifacts of considerable power. They can be worn and wielded only by blood descendants of Samular.”

  “Which Bronwyn is,” Danilo put in.

  “Yes. What these rings can do, and where they are held, I do not know. Hronulf wears one of them, another was lost in the raid on his village. The third has been missing for centuries.”

  The ar
chmage turned to Alice. “And this is where you come in. Find out what Bronwyn knows, and report back at once.”

  “I’m to tell her of the rings, aren’t I?” Alice asked anxiously. “It won’t be easy admitting to her that I’ve been keeping watch over her these four years and more, but the time has come.”

  “Not yet,” Khelben cautioned. “You are to act as you always have. Watch, listen, and report.”

  “But—”

  He cut her off with a single stern glare. “Find out what she knows,” he repeated. “And that is all.”

  The dismissal was unmistakable. Alice slid off the too-tall chair and nodded her head in a curt, barely respectful bow.

  Danilo watched her go, fully understanding how she must feel. The little gnome considered Bronwyn a friend, and yet she kept secrets from her because it was her duty as a Harper to do so. Clearly, it didn’t sit well with the proud former warrior. It didn’t sit well with Dan either, if truth must be told. He wondered how much longer either he or Alice would be able to give duty greater weight than friendship.

  Five

  Bronwyn stopped when she was perhaps a hundred paces from Blackstaff Tower. It was one of the oddest buildings in a very unusual city. A tall, flat-topped cone of seemingly unbroken black stone, it was surrounded by a curtain wall of the same dark substance, a wall without any apparent doors. She circled around, not quite sure what she was looking for. Then, she noted a basket at the foot of the wall, a tall wicker basket such as a merchant might use to haul goods to the market stalls. There were a few baskets of that sort in the back room of the Curious Past. Bronwyn edged between two nearby buildings and settled down to wait.

  After a short time, the basket began to move, dragged by the handle by a small, white-haired gnome. Bronwyn caught her breath in a half sob as she recognized Alice.

  Even through her pain, Bronwyn had to admire the gnome’s ploy. Emerging through an invisible wall was one thing, and would surely seize the attention of any who witnessed it. But who would notice a gnome tradeswoman, who appeared only to be stooping to adjust her load before proceeding on her way? Alice had obviously planned to slip through the wall behind the basket, wait for an opportune moment, and then go on her way. It was well done.

  Bronwyn followed, keeping at least thirty paces between herself and the treacherous gnome. At least she now knew how the Harpers had been keeping an eye on her business. That Alice reported directly to Khelben Arunsun, the Master Harper, was a matter of some concern. Bronwyn could see no reason why she warranted such lofty attention. No doubt the archmage was concerned about her contact with Malchior. Members of the Zhentarim seldom ventured into Waterdeep, and their activities were carefully monitored. And as she herself had noted, a skilled mage could probably get a good deal of information from the amber necklace that Malchior had handled. Khelben had not been happy to lose it.

  Anger welled up anew, momentarily stopping Bronwyn in her tracks. Khelben must have ordered Alice to bring him the necklace. And this, after Bronwyn had pledged to Malchior that she would keep it safe from those who could read magic’s secrets. Once again, it seemed that the Harpers were forcing her to renege on her word. That, she simply could not allow.

  When she reached Curious Past Bronwyn threw open the door with a force and fury that brought a shower of plaster shimmering down off the wattle-and-daub walls and rattled the rare things displayed on the shelves. Two startled halfling customers and one equally surprised gnome shopkeeper stared up at her in astonishment.

  “Where is the amber necklace?” she demanded of Alice.

  The gnome’s brown face furrowed in puzzlement. “In the safe, child, where you left it. Please browse—I’ll be back directly,” she said to the customers. The gnome shot a glance toward her personal version of a shop’s cat—a sleek, keen-eyed raven named, appropriately enough, Shopscat. The raven hopped down from his perch, positioning himself so that the halfling matron’s fingers were within easy reach of his wicked, yellow beak.

  Alice and Bronwyn hurried into the dusty jumble of baskets, boxes and barrels that was the shop’s back room. Behind them they heard a sharp squawk, followed by a halfling’s startled squeal. “Think about it,” the raven advised, one of several phrases it used to good effect.

  The gnome sighed and shut the door behind her. “I’ll have to hurry before Fillfuphia cleans out the place. Bronwyn, there are things you must know. Sit, child.”

  Bronwyn sat, settling down on a suspiciously familiar basket. She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. “I have a few questions for you, too.”

  “They’ll have to wait. Please listen well. This is not easy to say, and I’d hate to have to repeat any of it.”

  “Go on,” Bronwyn said cautiously. She gripped the edges of the basket so tightly that the wicker edges bit into her still-sore palms. This response was the last thing she’d expected from Alice. The gnome was always calm, competent. Never show them what you’re thinking, Alice had often cautioned Bronwyn; this was a rule that governed all their business dealings and, it would seem, their dealings with each other. But for the moment at least, Alice had cast aside her own rules. The gnome’s slightly prominent eyes glistened with tears, her face was drawn and pained, and her form shook with emotion too strong to repress. In short, Alice was a precise mirror for what Bronwyn herself was feeling.

  “Child, you’re not the only Harper in this shop. I was assigned to watch and protect you, without telling you why. I didn’t know why, until recently, other than a general knowledge of who and what I was to look out for. But the pot is heating up.…” In a few terse words, the gnome told her what Khelben had said about the Zhentarim, the paladins, and the family artifacts.

  As Bronwyn listened some of the pain of betrayal seeped away, but her determination was stronger than ever. “I need to go to Thornhold,” she said. “I have to see my father.”

  “Of course you do, child.” The gnome looked at her shrewdly. “But that’s what they expect you to do. There might be problems. Unless, of course, we can distract them.”

  Bronwyn nodded as a plan started to fall into place. But one question remained. She met and held Alice’s gaze. “We?” she asked pointedly.

  “We,” the gnome said firmly. “You do what you must, and I’ll help you however I can.” Alice hesitated, then held out her hand, offering both an apology and a pact.

  A clasp of the wrist, Harper to Harper. Bronwyn understood the gesture and found it inadequate to what Alice offered and what they shared. She struck the tiny hand aside. Before the shock in Alice’s eyes could turn to hurt, she gathered the little gnome into her arms. The two women clung together in a brief, fierce embrace.

  After a moment Alice cleared her throat and drew back. “Well, I’d better go see what Shopscat is squawking about,” she said hurriedly, dashing the back of her hand against her eyes.

  “Good idea,” Bronwyn replied, though she had not heard the raven’s raucous voice since they’d left the shop. A fond smile curved her lips as she watched the gnome scurry out to the shop. Then she wiped her eyes and climbed the back stair to her room, to collect her thoughts and to prepare for the trip ahead.

  * * * * *

  The small sea cave, located to the south of the Stoneshaft tunnels by a half day’s brisk walk, measured six paces from side to side. Ebenezer marked off the width again, then again, pacing distractedly as he considered his predicament.

  It wasn’t much of a cave. Exceedingly small, it was littered with dried seaweed, crab claws, and broken shells. Various mussel-like critters clung to the stone walls and ceiling, and the floor was a combination of cliff rock and ocean sand. Not exactly homey by the dwarfs standards, but it served him now as a combination haven and prison. The large boulder he’d shoved into the opening nearly covered the mouth of the cave, keeping it secure—for now. Ebenezer wasn’t sure what he’d do when the tide came in. Drown, most likely. He could hear the sea and even smell its salty tang, though that was hard to do over the mu
ch closer and far more foul aroma outside.

  “Off the chopping board and into the stew pot,” Ebenezer muttered. It was a dwarven cliché, but since it fit the situation so perfectly he thought he could maybe get by with using it, just this once.

  Glumly he reviewed the steps that had led him to this predicament. He’d survived the drop from the ledge onto solid stone below just fine and had kicked his way out of the splintered crate—only to lose his balance and splash into the river. Ebenezer had never learned to swim, and now he knew why. Being in cold, moving water was damned unpleasant. He’d been tossed and buffeted about for what seemed like hours, going under more times than he could count. The only thing that had kept him from drowning was sheer cussedness—that, and the large rock that he’d slammed smack into. Fortunately, the rock was not the only one of its kind, and once his eyes had uncrossed he’d been able to make his way to shore. Problem was by then he was well past the warren of Stoneshaft tunnels and the only way back was up the river he came down on. Thank you, no. So he’d taken to the surface by the quickest tunnel and headed south along the sea’s shoreline—noisy, nasty thing, that sea—to a point where he could scale the nearly sheer cliff and get up to the Trade Way. Ebenezer’s thinking was that the road was the fastest way back to the tunnels’ entrance. Unfortunately, he had a long walk ahead—at least a half day, the way he figured it. He suspected that he would be too late.

  That was what the “chopping board” looked like. The “stew pot” was no improvement. Ebenezer sighed and edged closer to the mouth of the tiny cave.

  A skeletal hand lashed out toward him. The dwarf leaned back, and the grasping claw swiped past, so close that the smell of rotting flesh nearly knocked him on his backside.

  “That was close,” Ebenezer admitted as he backed away. “Good thing I shaved off the mustache, or he might ’a got a grip.”